The Return
by Vintage Tea Party
Summary: Its been nearly three years since Sherlock's death and John is still having a difficult time moving on. Then one day he gets a series of clues that he believes will lead him to Moriarty. Little does he know the end of these clues will prove to be much more rewarding than he ever expected.
1. Part 1

John bolted upright in bed as a muffled scream escaped his lips. His heart was pounding, his head ached, and he was covered in sweat. He tried to slow his rapid breathing and suppress the tears that always tried to accompany his terrifying nightmares. He wasn't really sure what he was trying to hide. There was no one here he hear his screams or cries. Sherlock wasn't in the next room and he wasn't in 221B.

He couldn't remember what this dream was about but he felt the terror of it. Sometimes he didn't remember the dreams upon waking. Other times he remembered the nightmares so vividly they haunted him throughout the day. Some of the nightmares were memories of the battlefield, something he hadn't dreamed of since before he had met…Sherlock. But more often than that, he dreamed of _that_ day, of the fall. Over and over again he saw his best friend lying dead on the concrete, looked into his vacant eyes, felt his life less hand, saw the blood-so much blood. Over and over again he relived that last conversation. Thinking about it all made it even harder to calm his pounding heart.

He glanced at the clock and his heart sank even farther. It read 9:30am, which meant he was late for work…again. He should have been at work at 8:00. He threw back the covers and dragged his worthless right leg over the side of the bed. He hated that stupid leg. It ached, even now, taunting him. Shortly after _that _day, his limp had returned with a vengeance. And the worst of it was now he knew it was all in his head. Before, he had been able to try and fool himself into thinking it really was injured. But there was no fooling himself this time. There was obviously nothing physically wrong with his leg. But even though he knew that, it hurt as much as if it actually was injured. He hated the sight of the walking cane that sat beside the bed, the one he needed to get around now.

While reaching for his cane his feet hit the glass bottles that littered his floor and he remembered why he had overslept, though his pounding headache was a good clue too. They were the reason that he kept oversleeping time and time again but then again they were the reason he could sleep at all. The dullness of his days and the past that haunted him drove his mind crazy to the point where he couldn't sleep. Not that he was in a big hurry to return to the sleep that, almost every night, involved frightening dreams. Many nights he just didn't sleep. But he couldn't stay up forever and on those nights he needed to sleep alcohol made it possible.

He looked around his small cluttered bedroom and let out sigh. It was so different from 221B, so different from the life he used to live. He took a deep, shaky breath and prepared for the day ahead. It would be a day full of doing things he didn't care about, a day full of trying to act like something he wasn't. Another day full of hiding who he really was, of who he had become.

* * *

When he arrived at the small clinic he now worked at the waiting room was full of patients, his patients. He'd seen this sight more times than he cared to admit. Restlessness and agitation was clearly written on their faces and he knew they'd been kept waiting. _He _had kept them waiting and he instantly felt guilty. He really hated doing such a poor job. As he walked in he tried to ignore the girl at the front desk. He flashed her a brief smile and tried to just walk quickly to his office so he could start on all the work he had to do. But she stopped him. "Dr. Watson. Dr. Bryant would like to speak with you."

He gritted his teeth because he knew what that meant and it wasn't good. He put on a friendly face for her and said "Thanks-"but he stopped because he couldn't remember the girl's name. He hadn't bothered to find out. He didn't make small talk with co-workers or try to get to know anyone these days. And, honestly, he hadn't been here long enough to find out much of anything anyway. He just walked away and left it at that.

He waited in Dr. Bryant's office for a long time, while he, no doubt, cleaned up the mess that John's tardiness had created. The wait only gave him time to think, which he hated. He knew was what was coming. He'd been in this position more times then he to dwell on. He was embarrassed when he thought of how many places he had worked in the past three years. But every time he got himself let go. He was always late for work and even when he was there he was careless. The quality of his work was less than outstanding and he often nodded off at his desk. He couldn't make himself sleep at his flat but he had no problem finding it at work.

Sometimes he really despised himself. He used to love being a doctor. The work use to thrill and excite him and he had been so good at it. But after the war things were different. After all he had experienced during the war, coming back and being a 'normal' doctor hadn't felt right. Sherlock had been the answer to his dilemma. After Sherlock had…gone, John was hopeful he could find some renewed purpose in his previous profession but that hadn't been the case.

Why couldn't he just get over it? Why was it still a problem after nearly 3 years? Why couldn't he get a job and keep it? Why couldn't be just be satisfied with a normal life? But here he was again, waiting to get fired.

Finally, Dr. Bryant walked in the room, looking tired. He smiled at John but it didn't even get close to his eyes. John knew he was trying hide what he was about to say but John knew. This wasn't new to him.

"Good morning, John" he said, sitting down behind his desk.

"Good morning," John managed to reply even though it wasn't one.

"John" he said with a sigh and a pause. He looked down. "This is your fifth tardiness."

"I know, sir"

"That's quite a lot of times."

"I know and I apologize." John was trying to be polite but he knew there was nothing he could say. He knew that no matter what he said now, Dr. Bryant had already made up his mind. But John tried, at least, not to be a jerk about it. He knew that people didn't like him that much these days. He was quiet and kept to himself and most people took that offensively.

"John, when you came here I didn't ask about your employment history. I knew that you had had a tardiness problem before but I wanted to give you a chance. And, frankly, I needed help bad enough that I didn't ask you to explain it. But I don't think this is going to work out. I need someone who can be here and on time."

John knew it was coming but it still didn't make this any less painful. He didn't feel much these days but he did feel the blow to his ego. He'd been fired again. And he hated it when people looked at him like Dr. Bryant was looking at him now. He was looking at him with pity. This was the reason that he didn't talk with people; he didn't do a very good job of hiding the mess that he was and he didn't want people to see it.

"John…I don't know what it is you're going through but I think you're going to need to get some help."

Heat flooded John's face and he stood up. He wasn't about to talk to this man about what he was "going through." John had tried to get help, but there was no help for John and his problems. No solutions, no miracles to be found. "Thank you for the opportunity. I'm sorry that it did not work out," was all he said as he turned and walked out of the office as fast as he could.

* * *

When John left the clinic he didn't feel like going straight to his flat and sitting there a lone for the rest of the day, so he wandered to a nearby park. There were lots of people in the park today. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year and it was a rare sunny day. A normal person would say it was nice a day but if John knew anything, it was that he was not normal, and hadn't been for quite some time.

When he finally found an empty bench he sat down and thought about his day. It wasn't really the loss of the job that bothered him. Dr. Bryant was arrogant and John hadn't liked him from the first time he met him. John also knew that he was being grossly under paid there. But with his recent employment history, he didn't have a lot of options. When most places found out how many times he had been let go in the past three years they he never heard from them again. Dr. Bryant had been glad to have John, not out of the goodness of his heart like he had claimed, but because John willing to put up with him and accept the meager wages he was willing to pay. No, come to think of it, John was glad to be rid of the job and that whole place.

But being fired again did bother him. He hadn't been able to keep a job for more than a couple of months. It bothered him that he couldn't move on. He'd turned into something he never had thought he would become. He'd never been much of a drinker. He'd drank from time to time but it was for enjoyment not for survival. Now he drank every day and it was interfering with his life. He'd always been a pretty good doctor. Now he was a pretty lousy one, if he was to be perfectly honest with himself.

He was lost. He didn't know who he was or what his purpose was. Nothing brought him excitement or contentment. He never felt like doing anything and he was so tired, tired all the time, in body and mind.

As he sat there and thought, he watched people in the park. Mothers were out playing with their children, people were walking by or riding on bikes, a few couples walked hand in hand. They were all so happy, enjoying the nice day. John couldn't remember the last time he was happy or had enjoyed something. And he almost never did anything with anyone else. He spent most of his time alone which he knew didn't help but he couldn't seem to help himself from keeping everyone at a distance.

He'd never really had many friends before. He'd had acquaintances but not friends. Sherlock really was his one and only true friend. John wasn't good at making casual friends and he didn't really trust people. It was rare for him to make a friend but when he did they were good friend. Stamford had tried to reach out him a few times but after a while he gave up and now John never saw him. He really couldn't blame Stamford; John knew he had driven him away. John hadn't wanted to talk to anyone about what had happened and he really just wanted to be alone.

John had felt this way to some degree when he had returned from the war. Back then he had been lost and didn't know what the purpose was in his life. His life had been missing something and he had been terribly lonely. But Sherlock had changed all of that. He'd changed John's life for the better in so many ways. He had made things exciting and had given John purpose. Life was better with him around. John was better with him around. John had never met someone who motivated him and brought out the best in him the way Sherlock had. A lump formed in John's throat, just thinking about it. He quickly chocked it back because there was no way he was going to lose it here, in such a public place.

But John knew that this time was so much worse. The time after the war had been somewhat brief. He had been depressed and lonely but he did not have the burden that he lived with now. Before, he had not known the burden of watching with your own eyes, your best friend, your other half, kill himself right in front of you. He knew that this was why it was so hard to move on. Sherlock had not died of natural causes. He had _chosen _death. He had decided, for some reason, that death was preferable to life. He had chosen to give up, to just stop everything. He had chosen to leave John. How could John live with that? When he had met Sherlock, Sherlock had given him a new reason to live. He'd given him a mission, a purpose, companionship. He'd filled a hole in John's life. But if Sherlock, who had been John's reason _not _to give up on life, had given up on life himself, what did that mean for John?

"Why did you leave me?" John whispered softly to himself. "I needed you…I still need you. I'm a mess without you" Not only was his throat a burning fire now, but his eyes sung with the tears he held back. He usually did not indulge in such thoughts in public for this very reason, but for some reason he almost didn't care. He was so tired of being alone, of hurting, of feeling like a drunk and a failure. Why couldn't he get past this? He'd seen buddies of his die before. In the war it was an all too common occurrence. But they had not chosen death. Life had been stolen from them; they had not thrown it away. And he had not been nearly as close to them as he had been to Sherlock.

The whole of it felt unresolved. He felt betrayed by Sherlock. Sherlock had decided to give up on life. He'd decided to give up on his work. He'd just given up on it. And he had given up on John. But it wasn't just that he'd chosen to put John in this lonely position that bothered him. It also bothered him because he knew, with certainty, that there was more to this whole thing than he knew. He knew that Sherlock had lied to him.

There was more to this than John knew and he had spent three years racking his brain to figure it out. The whole thing didn't make sense to him. Sherlock wouldn't commit suicide. Sherlock wouldn't have given in to anyone. He wouldn't have given up on his work. He wouldn't have given up. But then, why had he?

He figured that Moriarty was involved in this somehow. John had thought at the time that he knew what was going on but now he knew that Sherlock had been keeping a lot from him. He knew that Sherlock had had someone to call him and tell him that day that Mrs. Hudson had been shot just to get him to go away. What had happened between the time that he had left Sherlock until the time that he had seen him again on the roof? Why had he sent John away, kept his plans a mystery to John? He wished he knew, but he was no closer to figuring it out than he had been that day.

John put his face in his hands. He felt so tired and the day wasn't even half over. He somehow just couldn't believe that Sherlock had wanted to kill himself. He didn't believe for one second that it bothered him that people would think he was a fraud. Sherlock knew he was brilliant and he was arrogant enough that that was enough for him. So, what had happened to his friend? What dreadful thing had happened to make him do such a terrible thing? He felt like such a failure for not knowing what had been going on and for not being there when Sherlock needed him.

John grabbed his cane and slowly stood up. He braced himself to head back to a flat that wasn't home. He braced himself for the loneliness that waited for him and the drinking he was sure to do and the nightmares that would undoubtedly visit him. He had just started to walk away when he stopped. He got that strange feeling that someone was watching him. He stopped and looked around. There were lots of people around but none of them seemed to be looking directly at him. He shook his head. Now he was starting to lose it. He'd been so worried that someone would see him that now he was imagined someone was staring him down. He continued to walk back to his flat but the feeling did not leave him.

* * *

When John returned to his flat he was surprised to find that he was not alone. Mrs. Hudson was bustling around the kitchen humming softly to herself. He saw that she had already done an enormous sink full of dishes which were drying on the newly cleaned counter tops. He thought of quickly going to straighten up his bedroom but he saw that the bin was full of glass bottles which suggested she had already been back there and cleaned up; he usually tried to get rid of them at least, for her sake, even though knew he wasn't fooling her. She was filling a bucket with water and soap to mop his floor when she noticed that he was home. She turned around with a look of surprise on her face.

"What are you doing home so early, dear?"

She'd been doing this every couple of weeks since he'd left 221B. He hadn't stepped foot in his old flat since the morning of Sherlock's funeral. After he'd watched them place Sherlock in the ground he just couldn't force himself to return to the home they had shared. He'd ridden a cab back from the funeral with Mrs. Hudson and had gotten out, but when he looked at the door he couldn't go inside. He couldn't face the place where they had lived now that Sherlock's life was over. He couldn't see Sherlock's things lying around never to be returned to. He'd gone to a hotel just long enough until he could find a somewhat decent enough flat in his price range.

Mrs. Hudson had been nice enough to send his things to him but she had been strongly against him moving out. She'd nearly begged him to stay. She'd said many times over that she didn't care about the rent that she just wanted him to stay. And he knew he should have but he selfishly couldn't. She naturally thought his new flat was not good enough and he had thought nothing of it when she showed up the day he moved in. She'd given the whole place a good scrub, complaining the whole time. He hadn't been able to make out much of her mumblings but thought most of it had something to do with a "good-for-nothing management." She'd been a great help to him that day helping him get everything moved in and settled.

But when she had shown up a couple of weeks later with cleaning supplies he had been angry. He had been in bed at the time, even though it was early afternoon, and he had had a hard time dragging himself out to answer the door. It had only been a month since Sherlock's funeral and he had spent most of that time in bed. The kitchen was nearly empty, the entire flat was dirty, and there were signs everywhere of his newly acquired drinking habit. His limp had also returned in that time and he had to hobble to the door with his cane. It was obvious that he had not been taking care of himself.

Her unannounced visit had made him angry because he was not prepared for nor did he want visitors. He didn't want to let anyone in, to see how much he was struggling. He had really wanted to be left alone with his suffering. He was embarrassed to have her see the state of him and his new flat. He felt weak at the way he was handling things, with his psychosomatic limp back and his turn to alcohol as a coping mechanisms. He knew when he opened the door that she would see it all and would know how poorly he was doing.

When he opened the door he had been less than friendly with her. "What are you doing here?" he'd nearly barked at her and she bustled in.

She looked at him with surprise. It probably had more to with his tone of voice than his appearance, but it made him feel self-conscience all the same. He couldn't remember how long he had been wearing the rumbled pajamas or the last time he'd showered. He hadn't shaved in weeks and he knew his breath must smell like alcohol. "I'm here to help, which by the look of things, you need," she said giving the flat of look.

He knew she hadn't meant to be hurtful but it still felt like an insult. "Well, I don't need your help. You're not my housekeeper, remember?"

He knew he was being cruel and he didn't know why. Her face sank for a moment, then she clutched the bag closer to her and raised her chin. "You've never needed one before but apparently you do now," she said and then turned for the kitchen and began rummaging though his cabinets and refrigerator.

John couldn't believe this. How could she have such nerve? He followed her in quickly to the kitchen where she had her back to him, busying herself with some activity. "I don't need a housekeeper."

"Oh really, and your flat looks this way because you're so good at this yourself?"

John cheeks burned. How dare she come in here and mock him in his own flat. This was _his _flat, his life, his pain. If he wanted to make of mess of it all, it was his own business and he wasn't going to let her come in and insult him this way. "Mrs. Hudson, I don't _want_ you here."

She stopped what she was doing and turned to him. To his surprise tears were running down her face. "You're not the only one who's hurting you know…I loved Sherlock too." It was hard for her to get her words out between sobs.

John was taken back. He hadn't expected this. He was ashamed to say that he hadn't thought about the way that she had been handling things at all. He had just thought about himself and his own pain. He'd never stopped to look at those around him. "I know its different for you" she said, "I know how close the two of you were. And I know that you're hurting terribly…but so am I. I miss him…and I miss you."

She looked him in the face now and he didn't feel embarrassed anymore. He didn't mind that she could see what he was now, see the extent of his pain. "Sherlock just took his life and threw it away. But I'm not going to let you do the same thing if there is anything I can do about it…I might not be your housekeeper…but we're family."

She wrapped her arms around her let the sobs overcome her. Tears sprang to John's eyes and he didn't even try to blink them away. He let them spill over as he looked at her. All this time, he'd thought he'd been a lone in his feelings. He'd been so wrapped up in his pain he hadn't even bothered to take notice of Mrs. Hudson and what she was going through. He hadn't bothered to think that Sherlock's death had affected anyone but himself.

He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back and continued to cry. "Please John…I don't want to lose you too."

Even on his darkest day John had never thought of killing himself. He would never consciously decide to end his life. But the course of action he was on until that day may have very well led him there anyway. He'd been wrong; he did need her. And he saw that she needed him too.

"You won't. I promise you won't."

Since that day he had tried his hardest to survive. He wasn't what you would call living, but he was surviving. And since that day, about every two weeks, Mrs. Hudson came to his flat. She cleaned and made sure he was taking care of himself. She made sure he had food in the house and made sure he actually got around to eating it once in a while. At first it had bothered him to take the help. But it was just his pride that got in the way; he really did need the help. He'd hate to think what the flat would look like without her help.

He'd given her a key and she usually came during the day, when he was at work. She knew that it bothered him to need the help so she made sure she came and did the most of the work while he wasn't there, though she always stayed long enough that they could have some tea or a meal when he got home. It was rare that he should come home so early and find her still at work like this.

He sat down in his chair and let out a sigh. "Well, its happened again. They've given me the boot." He was trying to make light of it but neither of them was laughing about it.

She came and sat in the chair across from John and gave him a sympathetic look. "John, I'm sorry."

"Its my own fault. I showed up late numerous times. They had the right to let me go."

"What are you going to do John?"

"I really don't know."

"Maybe doctoring just isn't right for you right now." Mrs. Hudson had been the one to encourage him to enter the medical field again and she had been right to do it too. He'd needed something to occupy his mind, to give him a purpose. It just wasn't working the way he had thought it would. He needed to find something new. He just didn't know what that would be.

"I don't know," he said with a sigh, looking down. "I'll put the kettle on."

"No," she said getting up "Let me. You've had a rough day."

She was off to the kitchen bustling about, when the doorbell rang. It was so strange that his doorbell should be ringing that it almost didn't register that he should answer it. "Are you expecting a visitor?" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen.

"No, I'm not," he answered. _I don't get visitors_ he thought. He walked to the door and to his surprise he saw Greg Lestrade standing.

"Hello, John."

"Hello, Greg. What can I do for you?" John figured he might as well get to the point. He hadn't seen Lestrade since Sherlock's funeral. It wasn't that he harbored any ill feelings towards him; he believed that Lestrade really had been on Sherlock's side. He just hadn't had any reason to see him. Without Sherlock there were no cases to solve.

"I have something that you might want to see."

"I don't solve crimes anymore."

"I really think you should see this. Its about you."

This caught John's interest. "About me?"

Lestrade held up his phone and on the screen was a picture of Lestrade's office. Written in big bold letters on his window were the words "GET JOHN WATSON."


	2. Part 2

John was shocked for a second at what he was seeing. The writing was just like the phrase "GET SHERLOCK" that Moriarty had once written on the case housing the crown jewels. But this was for him. What could it possibly mean? One thing it meant was that Moriarty was back.

"Whoever wrote this came into the station last night and managed to get in and out undetected. No one saw the intruder, there is no record of them on video, and they set off none of the alarms" said Lestrade.

"Moriarty" John almost whispered the name as he still stared at the picture. It never occurred to him that Moriarty would come back. Moriarty had tried to kill him before but that was to get to Sherlock. What purpose would Moriarty have for killing John now, years after Sherlock died? But of course it occurred to John that Moriarty didn't _need _a reason for anything that he did; the man was insane. He did whatever suited him.

"That's my theory."

"But it's not everyone's theory," John said, finally looking away from the phone to Lestrade's face.

Lestrade looked down. "No, its not."

Of coarse not. No one suspected Moriarty because they believed that he had never existed. "Everyone else suspects that its a prank of some sort. They're concerned about the security risk this poses, but they do not know who could have done it."

John gave a little laugh but it held no humor "Of coarse they don't"

"John, listen," Lestrade said looking straight at John with fieriness in his words. "I am taking this seriously. No matter what the others think I believe that this is Moriarty." He paused before continuing. "I believed in Sherlock. I saw him work for years and I know he wasn't a fraud. No matter what the papers say, no matter what the others say at the station, I never believed that he was a criminal. And I know Moriarty is real."

John's heart was heavy. It felt like a solid rock sat in his chest. He had not had any contact with anyone in the police force since Sherlock died. He knew what they thought, that they believed that Sherlock was a fraud, that he'd made up all the crimes, that he was a psychopath. And John couldn't stand it. Sherlock had worked with them for years and they had turned on him in a moment. They'd known Sherlock for longer than John did and still years of knowing him hadn't been enough to banish the doubt that Moriarty had planted in their minds. But John knew that Lestrade was different. That he didn't believe that nonsense, but John couldn't help feeling that there was more he could have done to stand up for Sherlock in the end. John had been right to stay away. The heaviness was so overwhelming that he wasn't sure he could breathe.

But there was something else, something burning the heaviness away, replacing it with strength. It was the desire for revenge. John was taken back by this realization. He'd never really thought much about Moriarty after Sherlock's death. Sherlock's absence had consumed him but revenge had never entered his mind. Now that it had he realized that he was hungry for it. Maybe it was foolish to think he might be able to avenge Sherlock's death, but if nothing else, maybe he could prove Moriarty was real and therefore prove that Sherlock had been right all along. And Moriarty obviously wanted something from John; if he had just wanted John dead he had no doubt that he would be dead.

Mrs. Hudson came from the kitchen then to investigate. She was surprised to see Lestrade but smiled at him. "Long time no see. How are you?"

Lestrade smiled "I'm good. And yourself?"

"I'm doing alright. What brings you here?" She looked puzzled; she knew that it was not normal for him to be here, that something must be up.

Lestrade was about to answer, when John interrupted "Greg, just came by to see if I could maybe help with a puzzling case." He didn't want Mrs. Hudson to know that he could possibly be in danger, that Moriarty was back and that his interest was, for some reason, focused on John. She'd only worry.

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked.

Mrs. Hudson still looked unsettled. She probably thought it might not be good for John to get involved in solving crimes again, something he had only done with Sherlock. But she said nothing and just looked at John for his answer.

"Yes," John answered. "I won't be long Mrs. Hudson."

"Alright, dear. Have...fun?" She said it like a question, like she wasn't sure what to say. He could only imagine what she would be feeling if she knew the truth.

* * *

John was restless on the drive over to the station. As Lestrade drove John couldn't help fidgeting; he seemed to suddenly have an immense amount of energy; something he hadn't had in years.

"Did Moriarty leave any other clues?"

"No. We searched all over but we couldn't even find any traces that anyone been there except for the message."

John was sure that Sherlock could have found traces that someone had been there. If only he was here, he'd have had this case solved already. John stopped his thoughts right there; he wouldn't allow himself to think that way. Sherlock wasn't here and he wouldn't be able to help. It was up to John to figure out what he could about this. He was no detective like Sherlock was but maybe something he had learned from Sherlock could help him piece something together.

When he got to the station it felt weird. How many times had he been here with Sherlock and there had been nothing strange about it? But now he was a stranger to those who had never known him. And to the ones who had known him, he was the best friend to the crazy criminal Sherlock Holmes. He felt out of place and he knew some were staring. He passed Sergeant Donovan. The sight of her made him sick but the look on her face rather pleased him. "What is he doing here?" she said in a tone of voice that made it clear she didn't like the idea. Good.

Lestrade ignored her as he and John stepped into his office and closed the door. John saw the evidence for himself now and it sent chills down his spine. There was no denying it now. In big white letters were the words "GET JOHN WATSON." He stepped up to the window and examined it closely. He searched the floor, Lestrade's desk, every inch of the office. But he didn't find anything else out of the ordinary.

"What do you make of it?" Lestrade asked. John had no idea. He'd been hoping to find something more.

"I don't know. Why would he lead me here? There must be something else." It was just starting to get dark outside as John continued to look at the window and then he saw it. Across the street in the building in front of them, the lights were flickering in the windows on the floor that was level with this one. They flickered off and then they flickered back on and when they did John saw it.

Painted on four different windows were four Hangzhou ancient numerals like the ones in the case he had helped Sherlock with involving the Chinese smugglers. He recognized the first and last numbers from that case. The first was a "1" and the fourth was a "5" but the middle two were a mystery to him. He made a quick mental note of what they looked like before they vanished as quickly as they had come.

"So, there isn't anything else you can see?" Lestrade asked. He hadn't seen it then. And for some reason John didn't think he should share this new information with him. He had no idea what it meant but he was going to find out soon and as he had learned from Sherlock, the police would most likely just get in the way.

"No, nothing at all"

"Well, I'm not surprised. We searched this place thoroughly and didn't find anything. But I'm not going to give up on this John."

John knew that Lestrade would be working on this solo. The others wouldn't be looking for Moriarty or taking the phrase he had written seriously. He also knew that Lestrade was trying to reassure John. He must think John was worried by this. John knew he should be worried about this but he wasn't. Those numbers were burning in his brain and he was restless to find out what they could possibly mean. But he didn't want to appear out of the ordinary, so he played along.

"Thank you Greg, I appreciate it."

Lestrade looked disappointed, like there was more he wished he could be doing. When he opened the door Sergeant Donovan was standing there, like she was waiting on them. She looked at John with a sneer on her face and as she looked him over she took special notice of the cane he was now using.

"So...the freak is dead now and you've come to fill in for him. Have you come to fill Lestrade's mind with your crazy ideas just like your crazy friend?"

John bit back the venomous words he wanted to say. Suddenly, he didn't feel the need to say them anymore. "I asked him come. This does have something to do with him," Lestrade answered. It was clear that he didn't appreciate her comments.

"Yeah, maybe it does. I don't know if psychopath is catching but if it is he's sure to have it. He's probably taking after the loser. He's probably done it himself just so he can come in and solve the case."

"Sergeant, that's enough!" Lestrade said, making it very clear that the discussion was closed. But she just smiled at John and walked away. As he turned away and walked the other way a smile spread across his face. He didn't need to tell her how wrong she was. Soon he would find Moriarty and prove he was real. And when he did he would prove that Sherlock had never lied. That he wasn't a psychopath. That he had never lied. And when he did he hoped he got to see the look on all of their faces

* * *

John stared at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep, he felt wired. The events of the day had been so strange and he didn't know what to make of them. He got out of bed and began to pace back and forth.

The evening had been long. Mrs. Hudson had stayed and made him dinner and he'd had a hard time concealing that something was wrong. He told her that Lestrade had asked him to help with a case that had been similar to one him and Sherlock had solved and that Lestrade was hoping John's experience could help. That part wasn't entirely untrue. But he also told her that he hadn't been able to shed much light on the situation. She had seemed to sense that talking about the event had bothered John and had quickly changed the subject and made small talk for the rest of the evening. She probably thought it had brought up memories of Sherlock and that was what bothered John. Whatever she thought, he was glad she had left it alone.

There was no way that he was able to sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about those numbers and what they could mean. If he knew what the other two numbers were maybe he could figure it out. But with just a one and five he had no idea what it meant. He couldn't wait until the morning when he could investigate the matter further though he wasn't exactly sure how he was going to find out what the missing numbers were. He was sure that he could find them if he investigated Sherlock's papers from that case but that would involve going to 221B and he wasn't willing to do that. He'd just have to find another way.

As the minutes slowly passed by he thought about Sherlock. John could understand a little bit how Sherlock could never sleep during a case with his mind so busy. John chuckled a little to himself and then stopped. That was probably the first time that he had thought of Sherlock and...laughed. For some reason that bothered him.

Yes, this day had been a strange one indeed.

* * *

The next day found John rummaging through a Chinese souvenir shop. This one was similar to the one where he and Sherlock had first realized that the symbols were numbers. It was a different store than that one but still John had worn a disguise just in case he would happen to be recognized. He wore different clothes than he normally would, a hat, and glasses. He also took his cane even though his leg felt better this morning than it had in a long day.

The store was small and cluttered and no one was in there except for a small older woman behind the sales counter. He figured the best way to recognize the numbers was to ask someone who knew what they were. But of coarse he wouldn't want them to know he was asking. The sales lady pounced on him the moment he walked in trying to interest him in various items. He picked up a few items he decided to purchase to get her to leave him alone but he was looking for the numbers.

He turned several items over and looked at the price tag until he saw the ones he needed. Finally, he found one of the numbers, the third number in the sequence. He asked the sales lady how much the item was. "9 pounds" says.

He held onto the item. That meant the numbers were "1", a still unknown number, "9" and "5." The sales lady had finally left him alone attending to a couple of new customers came in, when he finally found the last number. He hurried to check out. She followed him and rang up his purchases but he made sure he asked about the final number. "8 pounds" she replied.

That meant the numbers were 1-8-9-5. The lady told him his total, he paid her, and left the store. He was walking down the street when the answer dawned on him. He knew what those numbers were. That was the number his blog counter had been stuck on for so long. Moriarty was leading John to his blog; that is where the next clue would be.

John couldn't get to his flat fast enough.

* * *

When John got back to his flat he flew to his bedroom. He dug his computer out from under a pile of books and papers and ran to kitchen table with it. He was just about to open it when he stopped. He stared at the still black screen. He hadn't been on his blog since before Sherlock had died. Without Sherlock there had been no reason for him to blog. No Sherlock, meant no cases, no cases meant that John had nothing worth reading to write about. Plus, he had been too frightened to ever look at past cases he had written about. With all the terrible press about Sherlock he wasn't sure if he could handle seeing such negative comments on his blog. It was bad enough that he didn't read the newspaper or magazines anymore because there had been so much of that trash in them at first; he couldn't bear to see it on his own blog. People use to love his blog and reading about Sherlock's cases. He didn't want to think about what they might have to say about it now.

He turned the computer on and it came to life. He hardly every turned it on anymore, he rarely needed it. He logged on and brought the internet up. He paused before he typed in the address to his blog. What would he find there? Did he really want to know? What was Moriarty doing? Was John just walking into a trap?

Sherlock's face, his dead, bloody, lifeless face flashed in John's mind. He didn't know what had caused Sherlock to choose such a terrible end to his life but he knew Moriarty had been responsible. Something had happened that John was unaware of. He had failed his friend that day; he hadn't been there when Sherlock needed him. He wouldn't do that again. The world would know that Sherlock was not a fraud if he had anything to do with it.

He pulled up his blog and saw that, sure enough, there was a new untitled, unsigned post, dated today. His blood chilled when he saw what the post said. Somehow he knew that this was his last clue. This is where, whatever was going to happen, would happen. This is where John was either going to get revenge for Sherlock's death, or meet death himself.

One the screen were just four figures: 221B

**What WILL John find at 221B? There is one more part to conclude this story. This is my first story so reviews would be appreciated! **


	3. Part 3

John stared at the door across the street from him. He had not stepped foot on Baker Street since the day he had moved away nearly three years ago. He had no reason to return here. He made sure that he had no reason to come near here.

Night had long fallen upon Baker Street. John had made sure that it was late when he made the trip over. Mrs. Hudson still didn't know anything about what was going on so John knew he would need to be secretive about his visit. If she knew he was visiting 221B again after all this time, she would know that something was going on. He could let himself in since he still had the key. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that he keep it, probably hoping he would one day return.

He dreaded entering the flat that had once been his home. He knew that everything would be mostly the same, except for the fact that his stuff would be missing. All of Sherlock's belongings would still be there, where they had been for the past three years, untouched. Shortly after John had left, Mycroft had come to Mrs. Hudson and asked to rent the room. He never went there himself but for some reason he wanted it vacant. He also paid Mrs. Hudson to keep it clean. So, everything would be as John had remembered it when he left.

John took a deep breath. He wished that Moriarty would have picked another location for their meeting. John wanted a clear mind and it was going to be hard to have one here. He wasn't even sure how he would feel or react being back in the flat that he had shared with his friend. And it made him mad. This had been his and Sherlock's home and Moriarty had no right to be here.

But he knew that his enemy was already here. Light glowed from the window in their flat. John had decided that he had waited long enough and it was time. Fear griped his heart. He had no idea what was going to happen or what he was going to face. He could be dead by the end of the night. What would that do to Mrs. Hudson? Why did this have to happen here? If this ended badly would she be the one to find him? But despite all his fear and doubt he knew that he could not turn his back on this.

He walked across the street and quietly opened the door and went in. He paused at the bottom of the steps. He took the gun out of his pocket and looked at the cane in his other hand. He wouldn't need that and he left it at the bottom of the stairs. He slowly walked up the stairs he used to walk on every day. He tried as hard as he could to not dwell on anything; he did not have the luxury of getting emotional right now. He touched the door to his flat and his hand hovered over the door knob. He pushed his feelings back and slowly turned the already unlocked doorknob.

The flat looked pretty much the same. Sherlock's things were still here and pretty much where he would have had them though John could tell places where Mrs. Hudson had straightened things up a bit. Sherlock's skull was still on the mantel, his books were spread all around, and his violin case sat in the corner. John's eyes burned as his eyes took it all in. He wasn't sure how she could come in here all the time. He walked over to Sherlock's chair and ran his hand over the back. This place use to be home, but it wasn't anything anymore.

He couldn't stay here for long; he already felt that he would become unglued. Plus, he knew that his every move was surely being watched. He cleared his throat, which already had a heavy lump in it. "Alright, I'm here. Let's get this thing over with."

John listened but heard nothing. He raised his gun. "I'm not sure why I'm here but you obviously brought me here. So let's…"

That was when he heard it. A voice spoke softly out of the darkness of the kitchen. It was not the voice of Moriarty, the voice he had been expecting to hear, but it still chilled him to the bone. He knew who that voice belonged to, or _had_ belonged to. He could have sworn he knew the identity of that voice before he ever saw the face of the one who owned it.

"John. I'm back," said Sherlock as he passed out of the darkness into the light. "I knew you'd figure it out." John still knew his voice, knew his face, like he had never left. He saw his friend, heard his voice, almost every night in his nightmares. But this was different. Sherlock wasn't sad, he wasn't bloody, or cold and lifeless. He was standing in front of John with a small smile on his face. How could this be? John was sure he wasn't dreaming, he was sure this was real, but how could it be? Nothing made sense and his mind felt so numb he couldn't even begin to figure it out.

The edges were getting black, everything was closing in. His arms felt weaker than they ever had and dropped to his sides. He heard his gun clatter to the ground but it sounded so quiet, so far away. Everything was getting darker and darker, everything felt so hot, and the weak feeling was spreading to legs. They gave way and he was sure he was going to hit the floor but he felt the arms of his friend around him lowering him into his chair.

John could barley see anything, everything was so dark. He felt Sherlock's arms around his shoulders shaking him gently. He could barely hear Sherlock. "John, are you alright? John!" John was sure he was going to pass out. He was so dizzy and nauseous, he longed to give into the darkness that fought to over take him But he fought it; he couldn't pass out right now. There was too much going on. He needed some answers.

He hadn't been aware of how much adrenaline has been in his body, preparing for a meeting with Moriarty, until now as it rushed out of his body leaving him shaking. Moriarty wasn't here, he told himself, through his cloudy mind. Moriarty wasn't here. Those clues were not from him.

But Sherlock _was_ here. John would have thought that he had officially gone crazy if he did not feel Sherlock's hands on his arms at this very moment. How could this be? Sherlock was…alive? Alive? He wasn't dead? Had never died? He was the one who had left the clues to lead John here?

John felt the fog in his mind beginning to clear and he could see Sherlock's face in front of him as the darkness cleared away. Sherlock had fooled him. Sherlock had lied to him. Sherlock had made John think that he was dead. Sherlock had willingly left John to suffer through these three years, heartbroken and lonely. John had trusted Sherlock. He had always thought Sherlock was his friend. He had always stood by Sherlock, followed him anywhere. But Sherlock had left him. And even worse than that, he had lied to him, and made John think his friend was dead. Anger burned within John.

John suddenly leapt up from the chair, knocking Sherlock back. Sherlock was startled but soon caught his footing and stared back at John with a puzzled, questioning look. "John, are you alright? Maybe you should remain sitting for a while."

John didn't even think about doing what he did next. He hadn't planned to punch Sherlock but the next thing he knew Sherlock was on the ground, holding his cheek and looking up at John. John could tell that Sherlock had not been expecting that, but then again neither had John. "I guess you would say that I deserved that," Sherlock said as he put his hand to his now bruised face.

That was Sherlock. He didn't think he'd done anything wrong. He didn't say that he deserved it, only that John thought he deserved it. As usual, he didn't get it. Had he even thought about John, at all in these past years? Had he even stopped to ponder the pain he would put John through, what it would be like for him? John spoke for the first time since he had seen Sherlock. "Do you have any idea what you've put me through all this time?"

He should hate this man. This man who was so self-centered and arrogant. This man who had deceived him. Lied to him. Left him. This man who had put him through three years of pain. He'd made John look at his dead face, had made him plan his funeral, had made him face the future alone.

But the more John tried to think of all the reasons why he should hate Sherlock, the more he couldn't even remember why he was mad. Sherlock was alive. This was the very thing that John had been wishing for since the day that Sherlock jumped off that building. So many times he had wished that somehow Sherlock could be alive. John had never been able to stay mad at Sherlock. No matter what stupid thing he had done John had never been able to stay mad at Sherlock. How could he possibly be mad now? How could he be mad when this was everything he had barely dared to hope for?

Sherlock got off the ground and John did something he had never done, had never though of doing until this moment. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and hugged him tight. Sherlock flinched out of surprise. John knew Sherlock was not use to hugs. No one ever hugged Sherlock and he only ever hugged one person, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock's arms hung at his sides for a moment but then John felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him and reciprocate the hug.

All the years of pain washed over John. All the loneliness he had felt, all the pain at his friend's death hit him like a ton of bricks. He had missed Sherlock so much and now he was here. John knew he was alive without a doubt. He could feel Sherlock's warmth, could feel his heart beating in his chest, could smell his scent and John knew he was real. It felt so good. It felt like coming home. And at that moment John knew he didn't need know what had happened and he didn't even need an explanation. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was alive and that was all he cared about.

Tears flooded his eyes and spilled over. John knew he couldn't them this time, as much as he wanted to. He was so tired and he'd been strong enough but now he didn't have to. His nightmare was over. A sob escaped his mouth and he pulled away from Sherlock. He covered his mouth and looked down at the floor. He couldn't bare to look at Sherlock as he tried to get his sobs under control. He was ruining everything! Sherlock was finally back and John was acting like a crazy person. Hitting Sherlock, hugging him, and now crying in front of him. What must Sherlock think?

He felt embarrassed that he was crying, crying! Sherlock hated crying. There was no physical reason why a person needed to cry; it was all about emotions, which Sherlock also hated. In Sherlock's eyes, the person who cried in front of others was over emotional and clearly not in control of their feelings. John couldn't bare to see the disappointment and revulsion that was sure to be written all over Sherlock's face at this moment.

"John…I…I had no idea this would be so hard on you." John braved a look up at Sherlock. Sherlock was never at a loss of words. And now he looked back at John, not with revulsion, but with sorrow in eyes and something else…uncertainty? Sherlock's face was so tired and worn. He looked like he had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I am terribly sorry."

Sherlock never said sorry because he never was sorry. To be sorry, would be to imply that one had done something wrong and Sherlock never saw himself as being wrong. John had heard Sherlock say sorry exactly once, to Molly on Christmas. But John could see it in Sherlock's eyes, hear it in his voice; he truly was sorry.

John stared at the face of him friend. Sherlock never let his heart show. He was always in control of his emotions, even around John. But at this moment, he was transparent. He saw the things that Sherlock would never say. He was tired. He was lonely. He was hurting. These years had been hard on him. What had he gone through?

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. Tears were in his eyes-something John had NEVER seen. "If it would be better for you…I mean if you feel differently after all this time…I can leave."

John had never seen Sherlock look so sad. He actually thought that John wanted him to…leave? That he wouldn't want him back?

"No!" John said. "Why would you say that?"

"I knew my leaving was hard on you. I expected that you would move on but you never did. Even now, you're still upset."

John had a hard time understanding what he was hearing. "How did you know it was hard on me?"

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, like he wasn't sure if he should say what he was about to say. "From time to time I would…check on you. I couldn't come back or let you know that I was here, but I wanted to know, that you were alright. But you never seemed to be the same."

John didn't know what to say. Sherlock had checked up on him? All this time when he thought he had been alone, Sherlock had been there?

"I thought that maybe you would feel differently when I came back, but it appears you are still angry."

"Sherlock…I'm not angry. I'm just surprised and a little overwhelmed. You were the last person I expected to find."

Sherlock looked surprised. "But you came. You figured out the clues and here you are. Who were you expecting to find?"

"Moriarty. The first clue, it was just like the one he had done before. I thought the clues were from him. As usual, I was wrong." The whole idea of it seemed ridiculous now.

"But why would come, if you thought it was him?"

"I thought that I might be able to prove that he was real and then everyone would know…"

"Know what?"

"That you were right about him, that you weren't a criminal, that you weren't…a fraud."

Sherlock looked confused. He really didn't understand it. "But I was never a criminal or a fraud. I knew that, you knew that. Why would you risk your life to prove that to anyone?"

John wasn't sure exactly how to answer. Why had he been willing to risk his life for that? He didn't understand it himself and he knew Sherlock wouldn't understand it. So he said the only thing that made any sense. "Because you're my best friend."

Sherlock's face softened. There seemed to be a range of emotions that he was battling with, that he was fighting to keep himself composed. "I knew that my leaving would affect you…but the magnitude of the impact surprises me."

"You still don't get it do you." John paused before adding, with some difficulty, "You still don't understand…you don't see…what you mean to me?"

Sherlock looked away. He was at a loss of words. He walked over to his chair and sat down. John followed him and sat in his chair across from Sherlock. Sherlock didn't speak for a long time and still didn't look at John when he said softly. "I never wanted to leave."

John could tell that Sherlock was going to say more but he was still struggling to compose himself. John had never seen Sherlock like this. John had thought that Sherlock didn't understand and until this moment he hadn't. But now he did.

It was a long time before Sherlock looked up and finished. "I never wanted to leave. I knew Moriarty was going to try and get me to kill myself that day, to complete his story. I was ready for that, I had a plan. But when I got to the roof, he did something I did not expect. He had three gunmen trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. If they didn't see me kill myself, then they would have killed all of you. He was after me, so it never occurred to me that he would go after any of you. Then he killed himself to make sure it would happen. I didn't want to do it but I didn't have time to come up with a better alternative."

It was as John had suspected all along; there was so much more to the story than he had known at the time. Sherlock hadn't wanted to jump off the building. Something terrible _had_ happened. But he never could have guessed that Sherlock did it to protect _him._

"And even then, I thought I could accomplish my task before you returned. I never meant for you to see me…like that. So, I said whatever I could think of to make it easier for you. I thought maybe if I could make you hate me, for deceiving you, that having to see my death wouldn't be as hard for you. But after I jumped and I saw your reaction, I knew I had failed."

John saw it in his head. Sherlock, dead, looking up at him from the pavement. Even though he knew it was fake now, it still brought a lump to his throat. All this time, there had been so much that John had wished he had been able to tell Sherlock. But now he saw that there was so much that Sherlock had wanted to tell him. He wouldn't say it all, but John knew. That day had been just as painful for Sherlock as it had been on John.

Silence stretched between the two of them and now it was hard for John to speak. "Wasn't there any way you could have let me know that you were still alive. Even if you had to go away…"

"Maybe I could have but I wasn't willing to take that chance. Moriarty had many people on his side and I knew they would be watching. They would have assumed that if I had managed to survive and had told anyone I was alive it would have been you. If they thought that you knew anything then your life would have been in danger. You had to be fully convinced I was dead in order to be safe.

"Several times I picked up the phone, to let you know that I was alive, that I was going to come back. But I just couldn't take that chance. The only one I told was Mycroft. I needed his help obtaining things I needed while I was gone and to keep this place vacant after I learned that you had left. When I came back, I had to make sure that I wasn't still being followed. When I was able to leave the clues and saw that no one was following me I knew it would be safe."

Sherlock looked at John now and locked eyes with his him. "Please know that I never wanted any of this. Please forgive me."

To an outsider Sherlock appeared to be a psychopath. Devoid of feelings, unable to care about anyone. Many times he appeared to John that way. But at this moment John got a rare glance at Sherlock's heart, at the emotions inside. He did care about John and he had missed John as much as John had missed him. He didn't show it the way others did but John knew it was certain.

"Of course I forgive you," John said though his voice cracked the whole way through. It sounded so funny that he started laughing. Soon Sherlock started laughing and the mood started to lighten.

After their laughter started to die down Sherlock spoke. "John, I have so much I want to tell you. How about I put the kettle on and we talk about it?" Sherlock smiled and added "Besides your blog needs some new material; you have grossly neglected it in my absence."

John laughed, really laughed. He hadn't done that in years and it felt very good. "Yes, I do believe we need to remedy that as quickly as possible."

There was so much for them to catch up on. So much John still didn't know about the past three years and where his friend had been. But he wasn't worried about that. He was home and this nightmare was over. The rest would sort its self out.

A reunion between the two of them would never be normal because they weren't normal. There was a lot they wouldn't say but they both knew.

Sherlock headed towards the kitchen and John smiled. "Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around "Yes?"

"You know I hate you, right?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Yeah, and I didn't miss you all."


End file.
